


The Adventure of the Seal in the Living Room

by Bold_as_Brass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Day At The Beach, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Octopus, Parenthood, Post-His Last Vow, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-12 14:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected visitor to Baker Street leads to an impromptu trip to the seaside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Seal in the Living Room

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to NightCat and Archea2 for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

John arrived at Baker Street to find a seal in the living room. It was lying on the sofa with its chin propped on the arm rest, looking put upon.

“Sherlock,” he said, “there’s a seal in the living room.”

A muffled shout suggested Sherlock had heard him, but provided no further explanation as to why there was a seal lying on the sofa, or how it had come to be there. Curiosity warred with discretion. He edged closer not wanting to be bitten. The seal was a good metre and a half long, silvery grey and had large, soulful brown eyes. It didn’t look particularly pleased with its current lot in life but as far as he could tell it wasn’t in any immediate distress either: its eyes were bright, its nose damp and its whiskers glossy. The seal stared back at him, unconcerned. After a moment it yawned displaying a large quantity of sharp, white teeth. Its breath smelled distinctly fishy.

“Morning, John," said Sherlock. As John watched he emerged backwards into the kitchen, towing behind him a brightly coloured child’s paddling pool full of water. He manoeuvred it around the kitchen table with a deftness John would have admired in other, less puzzling, circumstances and parked it in the middle of the living room.

“Morning,” said John.

There was an expectant pause. The seal peered over the side of the sofa; its whiskers perked up.

“Well go on, then,” said Sherlock. He nudged the side of the pool with his foot.

The seal gave a honk of joy, flopped onto the floor and hauled itself laboriously across the carpet. When it reached the pool it hesitated for a moment then clambered over the side, landing with an almighty splash. A pillar of water rose into the air. Sherlock stepped backwards avoiding most of it; John, not so swift, was soaked.

“Wow,” he said when he had recovered his breath. “Okay.” He stared at the seal, which had dunked its head beneath the surface of the water and was nosing around the pool with every sign of enjoyment. “Is it a clue?”

“No John,” said Sherlock. “It’s a seal.”

“Right. And…” a number of questions rose to mind. He picked the most pressing: “Why a paddling pool? Why not put it in the bath?”

“It’s a she. And I can’t - there’s an octopus in the bath.”

John blinked, then trotted down the corridor to the bathroom and poked his head around the door. Sure enough a three foot aquarium stood in the bathtub. A small orange octopus had attached itself to the tank wall while two of its arms explored delicately over the rim. When it saw him it froze, boggling up with curiously human eyes. Then it flushed deep amber and with a flick of all eight arms disappeared into a pile of rocks at the base of the aquarium.

He returned slowly to the living room. “There’s an octopus in the bath,” he said. “I think it’s trying to escape.”

“That’s why it’s in the bath,” said Sherlock. “Secondary bunding.”

“Oh,” said John. Like many of Sherlock’s explanations, it made sense if you didn't think about it too much. “Of course, yeah. Clever.” He focussed instead on more immediate concerns. Sherlock wasn't his normal, pristine self. His dark suit was crumpled and covered with pale salt water stains and a large purple bruise had begun to blossom across one cheekbone. “You okay?” He touched a finger to his face in explanation.

“Oh that? Yes fine,” said Sherlock. “Hit by a flipper. I think it was an accident.” He straightened his suit a little self-consciously. “So, John."

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s bruised cheek pulled at his smile strangely. “How’s Mary?”

“Mary’s fine, thanks. She’d like a bit more sleep at the moment, but then again, so would I.”

“Excellent. And how’s...” There was a pause. One of Sherlock’s hands described a slow arc, “...your little daughter?”

“You’ve deleted her name again, haven’t you?”

“No.” Sherlock's eyes darted around the living room, seeking inspiration as John waited resignedly. “Wilhelmina?” he tried.

“ _Wilhelmina_?”

"German in origin. Female form of William."

“That’s...not her name, Sherlock.”

“Should’ve been,” said Sherlock under his breath.

“Yeah, she’s good,” said John, not prepared to refight that battle. “Teething. It’s playing havoc with her-”

“Yes, lovely,” said Sherlock. “Anyway, enough chit-chat. Can I borrow your car?”

“What?” said John. “Why?” Sherlock’s eyes swivelled to the seal. She'd rolled onto her back and was waving her fore-flippers luxuriously in the air, showering droplets of water across the carpet. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh.” Clearly Sherlock hadn't expected a refusal. “Why not?”

John sighed inwardly. He’d been up most of the night with a teething baby and refusing to give a lift to a large semi-aquatic mammal wasn't a decision he’d ever thought he’d have to justify. “Because-” he said. Because of the damage an irritable seal might do to the upholstery. Because it couldn't possibly be good for the seal either. Because it had taken three hours and almost cost him his marriage to fit Rosie's car seat and he didn't want to take it out again. But none of those reasons would satisfy Sherlock. He picked the most straightforward explanation instead, hoping logic would prevail: “Because she’d never fit. We've only got a hatchback.”

“Oh.” Sherlock considered the seal. “Yes, you may have a point. But she can’t stay in here: overheating is a very real possibility.”

“And Mrs Hudson would probably have something to say about it too. Is she in?”

“Having brunch with her sister.”

“Right.” Probably for the best. "So, what were you thinking, take it down to the Thames?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace, his normal route somewhat curtailed by the paddling pool. "No. Far too brackish and she’d be hit by a tour boat before the day’s out.”

“So why did you need a car?”

“There's a seal sanctuary in Skegness. I’ve made all the necessary arrangements. Said I’d found her washed up on a beach near Cleethorpes.”

“How about London Zoo?” said John, wondering as he did how this had become his problem.

“Already checked. They don’t ‘do’ seals. Sea lions and penguins, yes, but not seals. Not endangered enough, apparently.” Sherlock sniffed in a way that reminded John of someone.

“What about Mycroft?”

“What about him?”

“Does he want a seal?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to look baffled. “Why would Mycroft want a seal?”

It was a fair question.

“Besides,” Sherlock continued, “I already owe him for agreeing to take the octopus. He’ll never let me live it down.”

“Mycroft keeps octopus?” Of all the day's revelations, this one wouldn't surprise him. Mycroft had always had something of the Bond villain about him.

“The plural is octopuses,” Sherlock said absently. “No, this will be his first.” He gave a lopsided grimace. “Though I’ve been telling him for ages he should get a goldfish. I suppose this is the next best thing.”

It was far too early, or possibly years too late, to be delving into the complexities of the Holmes siblings’ relationship. John sat heavily on the sofa instead. It was damp and smelled rather of mackerel.

“Oh well,” said Sherlock. “Nothing for it. Can I borrow your phone?”

“What happened to yours?” Sitting had been a mistake. A wave of weariness washed over him.

“Salt water doesn't agree with it.”

John handed it over and closed his eyes. The bleeping of keytones told him Sherlock was dialling.

“Hello, Detective Inspector.”

“That’s Detective _Chief_ Inspector to you. And it is my rest day, you know,” came Lestrade's voice, faint and distorted from the speaker. In the background John could just make out the sound of jaunty music and screaming children.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “and you’re spending it in IKEA apparently. How very nice. Well not to worry, I’m going to rescue you. How do you fancy a trip to the seaside?” An impatient knocking interrupted what he was about to say next. “John, would you get that? What, Lestrade? Oh. Skegness...Today.”

John jerked awake from the beginnings of an uneasy dream and hastened to obey. Mycroft stood on the doorstep in his summer plumage of pale linen trousers, blue blazer and straw panama. “This will have to be quick,” he said without preamble, “I was on my way to the cricket. I’ve had to leave the Washington contingent to fend for themselves.”

“It’s in the bathroom. Come on up.”

They were greeted by chaos. Sherlock was still on the phone and the seal had decided to make her own entertainment by flipping water out of the pool and barking in delight. To Mycroft’s credit he didn't falter, nodding regally at Sherlock before picking his way across the kitchen, giving the paddling pool a wide berth. Sherlock waved a hand in what might have been semi-affectionate greeting, impatient dismissal, or a combination of the two and carried on talking. “All right,” John heard him say, “so borrow a van...Of course I’m serious...Tell them you need it for the public good.”

The bathroom by comparison was an oasis of calm and tranquillity. The aquarium appeared devoid of all life.

“It’s hiding between those rocks,” said John, hoping the octopus hadn't made a bid for freedom in the meantime.

“Not to worry,” said Mycroft, “we’ll soon tempt it out.” He perched on the side of the bath, opened his briefcase - tan today to match his loafers - and produced a small rectangular container. It was made of dark smoked plastic and had two metal hooks attached to one side. Mycroft removed the lid, then slotted the body of the container over the inside of the aquarium wall, submerging it until it filled with water.

“That's it?” John said.

“And now we wait,” said Mycroft. He crossed his legs and rested his Panama on one knee.

“I thought you were in a hurry?”

“This won’t take long,” said Mycroft. “Octopuses are highly intelligent. Curiosity will tempt it out.”

John sat on the closed lid of the toilet for lack of any other options. “What are you planning to do when you’ve caught it?” he asked, suppressing a yawn. “Donate it to a zoo - captive breeding programme, that kind of thing?”

“Oh no,” said Mycroft, sounding shocked. “No. Parenthood is very hard on them. The male octopus dies a few weeks after mating and the female soon after her eggs hatch. Breeding is the fastest way to kill them off.”

“Right,” said John, with a pang of fellow feeling. “So, a pet then? Teach it a couple of tricks? Juggling - that kind of thing? Haha.”

“Oh, I think we could manage more than _tricks_ , with proper coaching," said Mycroft. "Ah, here we are.” A small orange tentacle had snaked through a gap in the rocks as he spoke. It was followed in short order by the rest of the octopus, emerging from its hiding place like a cork from a bottle. “Completely boneless, you see. They can squeeze through a space the size of a ten pence piece. Just imagine what they could do if they put their minds to it.”

The octopus crawled across the base of the aquarium towards the container, then began a purposeful ascent up the tank wall, its suckers attaching and detaching from the glass with hypnotic slowness.

“Yeah,” said John. The sinuous rippling of the octopus's arms made his stomach feel queasy.

Something about his tone caught Mycroft’s attention. “Are you feeling quite well, John? You look dreadful.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed a palm across his face and sat up straighter. “Tired mostly - Rosie’s teething.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock had terrible trouble, I remember. And the nappies...” he gave a delicate shudder. “Have you tried carrot sticks? He used to like to chew on them. Carrot everywhere of course, but it did the trick.”

“We’ve tried _everything,”_ said John, with perhaps a shade too much emphasis.

“Merely trying to be helpful,” said Mycroft. Behind them, the octopus had reached the container and was hanging onto the side with three of its arms while peering into the interior.

“Your fishing trip’s paid off.”

“So it has.” Mycroft observed his new charge with the beginnings of a fond smile. “I've always thought having eight arms would be _exceptionally_ useful,” he said and with surprising speed picked up the container lid, scooped the octopus into the base and fastened it securely. The container quivered in protest in his hands. “It’s just to keep you safe until we get you home,” he said to it. The words had a faintly paternal ring. John wondered uneasily if Sherlock realised what he'd set in motion.

The living room was considerably quieter than when they’d left it. Sherlock was kneeling by the paddling pool and talking softly to the seal who was gazing up at him with liquid eyes. When he saw them he rose to his feet, brushing off his knees with a guilty air. “All done?” he said.

“Yes, thank you,” said Mycroft, displaying the container. “I’ll send someone over to pick up the aquarium. See you at the garden party, Sherlock,” he nodded towards the chimney breast where a card bearing a very familiar crest had been pinned to the wall by an antique dissecting knife. “And do try to find a smarter suit, will you? That one’s looking a little tired.” And with that, he swept from the room with the air of a man who had better places to be. John followed in his wake, carrying his briefcase and hat.

“A _royal_ garden party?” he said when he'd returned.

“Told you he’d get his pound of flesh,” said Sherlock. He flopped onto the sofa. “Lestrade’s bringing a van over now. He thinks we can be in Skegness by early afternoon.”

“Okay,” said John. “So do you still need me?”

“Well of course I still need you,” said Sherlock. “We’ll have to wrap her in a towel and carry her down the stairs. I’ll take the tail end and you can take the head.”

“Hang on,” said John. “It’s your seal. Why do I get the sharp end?”

“She’s not _my_ seal,” said Sherlock. “She’s a seal who happens to be in my possession. And you have to take the head because you’re shorter. I really don’t recommend trying to carry her downstairs head first. She can pack quite a punch when she gets excited.” His slowly closing eye bore testament to his words.

“You need to put some ice on that,” said John absently. “Okay, but what I meant was: do you need me to come up to Skegness?”

“Probably for the best,” said Sherlock, “I’m not sure how well she’ll travel. We’ll be back by tonight.” He gave John an appraising stare out of his good eye. “Is it a problem?”

“Don’t know,” said John. “Can I have my phone back?”

Sherlock handed the phone over, a little reluctantly John thought. He went onto the landing to make the call in. “How is she?” he asked when Mary answered.

“Still grizzly, but sleeping for at the minute,” she said. She sounded as tired as he felt. “I think last night wore her out. What does Sherlock want?”

“I need a favour,” he said, and explained the situation as best he could.

“Skegness?” she said when he finished.

“He says the only other seal sanctuary is down in Cornwall. Are you all right with this? I can always say no.”

“You can never say ‘no’ when it’s Sherlock asking,” she said, fond but exasperated.

“I can now,” he said. “I told you, I’ve got different priorities.” There was a long pause. He leaned against a wall and listened to her breathing, feeling his eyelids begin to droop.

“I want a night off,” she said.

“I know. Me too.”

“I mean it, John. I want Friday night off. I want to go to a hotel and sit down with a cup of tea and drink it while it’s still hot, and then I want a bath and eight hours uninterrupted sleep. That’s the deal. If you get today, then I get Friday night off.”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said, “yeah. I get today and you get Friday. That’s fair.”

“Have a good time,” she said, sounding brighter than she had for weeks, and blew him a kiss before ringing off.

 

* * *

 

“You’d think after almost thirty years in the Met nothing could surprise me,” said Lestrade, “but then I see something like this.” The seal had decamped onto the hearthrug. John had found her a documentary about herring migration on the TV and she was watching it with whisker-quivering interest. Sherlock was lying on the sofa with a bag of frozen peas on his face. “So you all set? I don’t want to be too long. I’ve parked up outside and it’s causing a bit of an obstruction.”

John went to the window. Sure enough a police van was parked lopsidedly outside Speedy’s, one wheel up on the curb. “Are you, um, used to driving something that big?”

“Cheeky bastard,” said Lestrade without rancour. He’d arrived wearing shorts and a bright Hawaiian shirt and was clearly in a holiday mood. “I’ll have you know I spent five years in Traffic. Sherlock, tell him.”

“He spent five years in Traffic,” Sherlock intoned from beneath the peas, “in the Nineties.”

“And less of your lip,” said Lestrade, “or you’ll both be walking to Skegness and towing Flipper here behind you.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock. He sat up abruptly, depositing the bag of peas onto the floor. “I’ll go and find some towels.”

“I don’t suppose,” Lestrade said, once he was gone, “there’s any point in asking _how_ he ended up with a seal in a first floor flat in the middle of central London?”

“I haven’t got round to it,” John admitted. He picked up the peas and returned them to the kitchen conscientiously. “Too much other stuff going on.”

“Right,” said Lestrade. He tore his eyes from the seal and looked John up and down. “You look knackered, mate. How’s the little one?”

“Teething.”

“Oh,” said Lestrade with profound sympathy. “Have you tried those rings you can put in the freezer? Only thing that would work on my bunch.”

“Everything,” said John flatly. “We have tried everything.”

There was an awkward pause. “I’ll just go and open up the van then, shall I?” said Lestrade. “See you down there.”

 

* * *

 

Manoeuvring the paddling pool and then the seal down the stairs went better than John had dared hope. The only awkward moment came when Mrs Hudson arrived back at Baker Street just as they were finishing. She was wearing a purple hat pinned at a jaunty angle and the flush on her cheeks suggested brunch had involved several large Bloody Marys.

“Hello, Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock, closing the rear door. A honk of protest came from within. “We’re off to the seaside!”

“That’s nice, dear,” she said. “A bit of sea air will do you the world of good; blow away the cobwebs.”

“I don’t have any cobwebs,” said Sherlock.

“He has,” she whispered loudly to John. “He’s been em-oh-pee-eye-en-gee.”

“I haven’t been moping,” said Sherlock. “Why would I be moping? I don’t mope.” He tossed his head and stalked off to sit in the van.

Mrs Hudson tutted at his retreating back then turned her attention to John. “How are things, John? Baby still teething by the looks of you.” John nodded. “Brandy, dear,” she told him. “It’s the only way.”

He gave her a tired smile. “We’re not allowed to give alcohol to infants, Mrs Hudson.”

“Not for her, silly, for you!” She kissed him on the cheek and tottered into the hallway. “Sherlock? Why’s all this water on the floor? And what’s that smell?”

“We should go,” said Sherlock, “quickly. John, get in. And give me your phone; we need it to navigate.”

 

* * *

 

Over the years the three of them were to have many adventures, but the four hour drive to Skegness with a car-sick seal was one John always tried to forget. He and Sherlock took turns in the back and even Sherlock’s self-possession began to slip as the hours dragged by, his face taking on a pinched, pale quality. Only Lestrade seemed unaffected, donning a pair of aviator sunglasses and bawling out endless verses of ‘one man went to mow’ with tuneless gusto.

“This reminds me of school summer holidays,” he called over the bellowing of a miserable seal. “God, the drives were hellish. You’ve got all that to look forward to, John!”

In John’s sleep deprived state the whole affair took on a nightmarish underwater quality, punctuated by moments of clarity. “But why,” he said to Sherlock as they stood on a sunbaked service station forecourt somewhere near Cambridge, “why was there a seal in the living room?”

Lestrade had parked the van away from curious onlookers and gone to have a crafty cigarette. They’d taken the opportunity to unload the paddling pool and hose down the seal with cold water from the carwash, much to her delight.

“Do you remember the Case of the Sleeping Sushi Chef?”

“No.”

Sherlock frowned. “Really no?”

“Really, no.”

“But you wrote it up on your blog. You said I was exceptionally brilliant.”

“Did this take place more than six months ago?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t remember. Sorry.”

“Well anyway,” said Sherlock, “it was to do with that.”

“How’s she getting on?” said Lestrade, joining them. He’d bought himself an ice cream. It was already beginning to melt in the heat.

John looked at the seal. She had propped herself up on the side of the pool and raised her face into the spray with a blissful expression. “Better,” he said, “the fresh air seems to be helping.”

“Do you think we should give her something to eat?” said Lestrade. “The shop sells fish fingers. I was thinking we could peel them, or something?”

“Well,” said John, “it’s not my van, but I’m not sure I’d risk it.”

“Let’s keep going,” said Sherlock. “The sooner we get to Skegness the better.”

 

* * *

 

The second half of the journey was a little easier. Sherlock discovered if they lifted the seal so she could see out of the rear window she became much happier. “The Sleeping Sushi Chef,” he said to John in the relative calm that followed, “you really don’t remember?”

“Nope.”

“The poisoning case,” said Lestrade. “The one where it all came down to the brand of knife the chef used.”

“Well I’m glad _someone_ was paying attention," said Sherlock. “Anyway, if you recollect, there was always the question about how the restaurant had managed to obtain its blowfish. I managed to track down a likely supplier - an import business in Canary Wharf. The owner was an Edward Chadwick.”

“There was a case on him a while back,” said Lestrade. “Dodgy dealings, black market caviare, that kind of thing. They never got anything to court.”

“Well until last night he was still in business - exotic marine life for the collector and the table. I went to visit him yesterday, posing as a buyer. That's when I bought the octopus. He showed me a number of different specimens, some of them very unusual.”

“And a seal?” said John.

“Yes. Though the seal was more of a pet and, I suspect, an excellent way to dispose of any superfluous stock. It was apparent some of his exhibits couldn’t have been legally obtained. I went back last night to check his import licences-”

“Not sure I’m hearing this bit,” said Lestrade.

“You’re off duty, what’s a bit of breaking and entering between friends?” said Sherlock. Lestrade looked first surprised then undeniably pleased. “But something must have tipped Chadwick off. By the time I arrived the whole place was soaked in petrol. When he saw me, he barred the doors and set light to the building.”

“He definitely saw you?” said Lestrade.

“Oh yes, and lit fires at all the exit points. He was very thorough - but for my coat, I doubt we'd have got out.”

“How is the coat?” said John. It was conspicuous by its absence; he’d put it down to the hot weather.

“Scorched.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

“I have spares.”

“It's odd though,” said Lestrade. “Chadwick's always had a reputation for being a bit of a wheeler-dealer but I never had him down as the violent type. Something must’ve have put the wind up him.”

“Possibly he’s mixed up in something bigger,” said Sherlock, “some nefarious scheme involving exotic sea creatures that I haven't worked out yet.”

“Yeah,” said John. He wondered if he should mention Mycroft’s plans for world domination via octopus, but dismissed the thought as paranoia. “So you're locked in a burning building, with only your coat, a seal and a selection of rare fish to save you.” It sounded way better than his Tuesday night, which had involved a frantic search of the local chemists for an emergency pack of teething gel.

“Yes. The fish I’m afraid had to take their chances. I calculated that the fire brigade would arrive in time to save most of them. The seal though, would have been overcome by fumes in minutes.”

“So you saved it,” said Lestrade.

“So I saved _her_ ,” Sherlock corrected. “Yes. I soaked my coat in water from the tanks, wrapped it round us, ran into the back office, climbed onto a filing cabinet and kicked my way through a skylight. Then I used my coat as a sling to lift her.”

“The ultimate sacrifice,” said Lestrade gravely. John wasn’t sure if he were joking.

“And what happened to Chadwick?” said John.

“By the time we were out, he was long gone.”

“So...you let a criminal escape so you could save a seal?” said John.

“Well what else was I supposed to do? I had to make a choice, John, and you weren’t there to help.” There was a heavy pause while they all avoided each other's eyes. “Besides,” Sherlock continued, “it was the logical response. There will be other chances to catch Chadwick; that was my only chance to save the seal.”

“And that’s what Sherlock Holmes does,” said Lestrade. “He saves people.”

“And seals,” said John, “apparently.”

“You’re laughing at me,” Sherlock observed, but he was stroking the seal;s downy brow and didn’t seem offended.

“And how did you get her back to Baker Street?” John asked.

“I carried her.”

"What, all the way from Canary Wharf?”

Sherlock shrugged as best he could with a seal propped on his shoulder. “It was late; I couldn’t find a taxi.”

“And no one said anything?”

“A couple of people did a double take,” Sherlock said, “but no one said anything. That's what I love about London.”

 

* * *

 

The volunteer at the seal sanctuary had pink streaks in her hair and looked far too young to be a qualified vet but she greeted the appearance of two men carrying a towel-wrapped seal with equanimity and handled her new charge with quiet competence.

“A harbour seal,” she said. “Female. Two to three years old. I’m surprised you found her at Cleethorpes: we normally only see grey seals on this past of the coast.”

“Really,” said Sherlock, at his blandest.

“Harbour seals are more common in Scotland or there’s a big population down in the South East.”

“Is there?” said John.

“Must have got lost,” said Sherlock.

“Well, she‘s in good condition overall,” the vet said, “a little dehydrated but nothing too bad. We’ll keep her in quarantine for a week or so but after that she can join the others.”

The seal snorted and rolled over to have her belly tickled.

“I see,” said Sherlock. “You won’t just drop her out at sea, will you?” His head tilted at an interrogative angle and John, recognising the signs, readied himself to snatch the seal and make a quick getaway if the answer wasn’t to his friend’s liking.

“No,” said the vet, “and if she’s always this friendly she might be better off staying with us anyway. Otherwise she'll just get into trouble with the local fishing boats. Don’t worry, Mr Higgins, we’ll take good care of her.”

Sherlock nodded and looked back down at the seal. “Goodbye then, Wilhelmina.”

She twitched her whiskers at him.

“Wilhelmina?” said the vet, smiling, “that’s a bit of a mouthful. We might have to shorten it if she stays.”

John half expected some display of sentiment but Sherlock was his old dispassionate self. He nodded once at the vet, once at the seal, turned on his heel and left.

“Wilhelmina?” said John as they walked from the building.

“Perfectly good name,” said Sherlock. “Nothing wrong with it.”

“No. And Higgins?”

“It can’t be known I spend my time rescuing seals, John. My reputation would suffer.”

“Yeah,” said John, “people might think you have a heart.”

“Quite.”

Lestrade was waiting outside, sunning himself on a convenient bench. “I’ve parked the van up at the local nick,” he said. “I strongly advise leaving it there for a couple of hours to air out.”

“All right,” said John, “so what do we do in the mean time?”

There was a pause, then Lestrade bounced up from the bench grinning like a lunatic. “Skeggy beach!” he said. “Come on, last one in the sea buys the beer!” And he set off towards the Esplanade at breakneck pace.

John and Sherlock stood side by side on the hot pavement and watched him disappear into the distance.

“‘Skeggy’?” said Sherlock.

John took a deep breath. The air smelled of ozone, doughnuts, candy floss, and burgers. The sky above them was a hazy blue. Faint strains of music could be heard from a distant funfair; the sound of normal people, on their holidays, doing normal things.               

“It’s his day off too,” he said. “Come on. The sea air will do you good.”

 

* * *

 

The beach, once they’d found it behind the bucket and spade shops, the bingo, the rollercoasters and two pence slot machines, wasn’t bad. There was a long sweep of grey-gold sand and the remains of a Victorian pier. Small children in large hats played in the surf, large men in small swimming trunks paraded  along the Promenade and there was even a drove of long-eared, patient donkeys. Lestrade went for a paddle, with the air of a man doing his duty, then they decamped to a cafe for three pie and chips, two lager shandies and a cup of tea for Sherlock, who claimed to be missing his coat.

Afterwards Lestrade bought a bucket and spade and set off back towards the sea with a determined look in his eye. John, full of pie and overpoweringly sleepy, left him arguing with Sherlock over the best sand to water ratio for making sandcastles, found a nice flat patch of beach, lay down and closed his eyes.

When he awoke the sun had jumped several degrees towards the horizon and a heavy weight lay across his chest. Looking down he found that someone had covered him with sand and piled it into the shape of a voluptuous mermaid.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he grumbled, “you’re lucky you didn’t give me nightmares about being buried alive.”

“It was Lestrade’s idea,” said Sherlock’s voice from somewhere behind him. “He said it would stop you getting sunburnt.”

“Did he?” said John. Someone had given the mermaid a decorous seaweed bikini. He suspected he knew who. With a grunt of effort, he sat up and began to brush himself off. “Where is he?”

“Amusement arcade. Trying his luck in the shooting gallery.”

John looked up. Sherlock was sitting a few metres away, cross legged, hands on his knees and staring out to sea. The beach had emptied: all the families packed up and gone home for their dinner. A stiff north-easterly breeze had begun to blow, whipping white tips onto the surf. “Think he's hit anything?”

“Not a chance,” said Sherlock, “you saw him at Baskerville. Couldn’t hit a barn door at twenty paces. No, John, you remain the crack shot amongst us.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He stood, dislodging the rest of the mermaid and caught sight of a large and magnificent sandcastle on the tide line. The sea had just begun to lap at its outer edges. He shook himself off and went to admire it. It stood taller than he did and was surrounded by a deep moat. Turrets and spires leapt from every corner, Escheresque staircases circled the outside and rows of seashells hung like brightly coloured shields from the battlements. From the top of the highest tower, a long piece of seaweed streamed from a driftwood flagpole.

“Did you build this?”

“What?” said Sherlock, feigning ignorance. “That? Yes, though I’m a little out of practice. When I was a child Mycroft and I would have sandcastle building competitions. Mycroft’s were always bigger,” his eyes narrowed, “though mine were more structurally sound.”

“Right,” said John. Whole family therapy session in that little anecdote and he had absolutely no intention of delving into it. “Have you still got my phone? I should text Mary; let her know we’re okay.”

“Here.”

He took a photo of the sandcastle and sent it with a text _. Having a lovely time, wish you were here._ There was no reply. He hoped that meant they were both asleep. Then he took the opportunity to check something had been nagging at him since he’d woken up. Something the vet had mentioned.

“Do you know,” he said conversationally, “there’s a harbour seal colony in the Thames estuary.”

“Really,” said Sherlock. He sat motionless. He might have been a statue, if not for the wind ruffling his hair.

“Really. Second largest in Britain.” John scrolled further down the page. “Apparently they’ve been sighted as far inland as Richmond.” He gave Sherlock an accusing stare.

“That _is_ a long way inland,” said the statue.

“Isn’t it. I thought you might have known that. You said the Thames was too brackish.”

“I can’t know everything, John,” said Sherlock reproachfully.

“No. But something like that, I thought you might have checked. Saved us a three hundred mile round trip. We could have dropped her off near Billingsgate and been back in time for lunch.”

Sherlock stared towards the horizon, looking noble and a little wounded.

John wasn’t fooled. “If you just wanted a day out with your mates-” he began.

Sherlock did move at that, unfolding his legs and stretching them out in front of him. Without the muffling bulk of his coat he appeared slender, deceptively fragile. “We really did need to get her checked by an expert,” he said. “Besides, a day off has done you good - ‘blown away the cobwebs’.”

“Don’t pretend this was for my benefit,” said John but he did feel better -  the worst of the dragging exhaustion had lifted. “Is Greg coming back soon?”

“He’s meeting us here in ten minutes.”

John relented sufficiently to sit. There were still a couple of hours to sunset, but behind them the lights had begun to blink on in the amusement park, giving a carnival appearance to the encroaching sea. Distant screams could be heard from the roller coasters. Out on the beach, water had completely filled the sandcastle’s moat and was starting to nibble away at its outer buttresses.

“Don’t suppose you know anything about teething babies?” he said.

“Not a clue.”

“No,” said John. “Me neither, which is a shame really, 'cos I’m meant to be a doctor.”

“But not a dentist,” said Sherlock with a half smile. The swelling on his cheekbone had begun to subside. He looked almost human.

“That’s true. Still, it’d be nice to have some idea what I was doing with this whole parenting malarkey.”

“Never stopped you in the past.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s a compliment. Of all the men I have ever met, your instincts have always been the most sound.”

John considered. Was that the answer then – to muddle through and trust to instinct? 

“Which is just as well,” Sherlock added, “because if you operated on intellect alone, then quite frankly-”

“Yeah, all right,” said John. “We were having a nice moment, don’t spoil it.”

But Sherlock had already risen to his feet and the moment had passed. “Here’s Lestrade now. What _is_ that he's carrying?”

By the time John had spotted him, Lestrade had hidden whatever it was behind his back. He came up to John with a wide grin. “I got you a present,” he said, “for the baby.”

“Oh,” said John, “that’s very kind. Thanks.”

“You _won_ something?” said Sherlock not attempting to keep the scepticism from his voice.

“Not really,” Lestrade admitted. “But they wanted to cash up for the night shift, and I think they felt sorry for me. Guess what I got?”

John and Sherlock exchanged glances.

“It’s a stuffed seal, isn’t it?” said Sherlock. He bounced lightly on his toes. “A Wilhelmina?”

“A Willhe-what?” said Lestrade. “No, it’s a panda.” He produced a three foot, sad-faced panda and brandished it at them, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “You know, like the police car. To remind her of her Uncle Greg.”

“Wow,” said John. “Er, that’s certainly the largest toy she’ll have. Thanks Greg. What’s its name?”

“Greg.”

“Good name,” said John.

“Hm,” said Sherlock and folded his arms.

“You two ready to go?” said Lestrade. “Or do you want to stay and watch your sandcastle a bit longer?”

“There’s no point,” said Sherlock. “No matter how well you build them, they always get washed away.”

“That _is_ the point,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock looked thoughtful, but for once didn’t argue.

“We’d better get back,” said John. “I promised Mary I wouldn’t be too late.”

“Come on then, Cinderella,” said Lestrade and led the way. “Can’t have you turning into a pumpkin.”

“I can drive,” Sherlock said as they made their way across the beach and towards the bright lights of the pier, John staggering slightly under the bulk of the panda. “Some of the way. If you want.”

“Go on then,” said Lestrade, handing him the keys. “But go easy: I’ll be keeping an eye on you. No funny business.”

“Can I have the sirens on?”

“No.”

“Blue lights?”

“Nope.”

“Radio 3?”

“If you have to.”

 

* * *

 

As it happened, Sherlock drove the whole way and without incident. Lestrade sat by him in the front and John stretched out in the back and pillowed his head on the panda. He fell asleep to a selection of works by Mendelssohn and the sound of mostly amicable bickering.

“I’m just saying,” Lestrade was saying as they pulled to a halt, “that if you wanted to get her a stuffed seal, you should’ve got her a stuffed seal instead of spending all afternoon building sandcastles. That’s all. All right, wakey-wakey, John, we’re almost there.”

John opened his eyes. Familiar orange London streetlights illuminated the interior of the van. He was home.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

“Two concertos, a string quartet and the second and third movement of Symphony No 5,” said Sherlock.

“About three hours,” said Lestrade, getting out of the van to open the back door.

It was the longest unbroken stretch of sleep he'd had for months. He felt, if not like a new man, then certainly a much improved version of the old one. He fumbled his way out into the cool night air and stood blinking on the pavement

“Don’t forget the panda,” said Sherlock from the driver’s seat. “Although of course if you wanted to, now would be the ideal time.”

“Shut it,” said Lestrade. “Night, John.” He passed him the panda, clapped him on the shoulder and climbed back into the van.

“Night guys.”

“Good night, John,” said Sherlock and pulled away.

Mary had heard them draw up and was waiting for him at the front door, a cup of tea in her hand. She was wearing pyjamas and her hair was flattened on one side and but she was smiling.

“Greg got us this,” he said, and showed her the panda. “It’s called Greg too.”

“Oh my god,” she said. “It’s massive. Where are we going to put it?”

“No idea. Smile and wave, that’s them going past now.”

They waved at the passing police van; Mary waggling Greg the panda’s paw so that it waved too.

“How is she?” John asked.

“Sleeping. The two top incisors came through just after you called. We’ve been asleep ever since; it’s been fantastic. How about you, did you have a good time?” She brushed his hair back from his forehead and examined his face. “You look better. Windswept, but better.”

“I feel better,” he said, and on impulse kissed her. “Much better.”

“You taste of salt,” she said and kissed him back.

“And are you okay?” he said meaning also: are we okay - are we going to survive it, this rollercoaster of parenthood, intact, alive, together - but not knowing how to say the words.

She understood him anyway. “Yes,” she said. “I think so, yes. I’m glad you’re back,” and she took him by the hand and drew him into the house.


End file.
